Yay! It’s a Potter fanfic! Read it kthx! Haven’t done one in so long, but just wanted to have my say in the ending for book 7, before the book comes out and all is final and concrete! It is kinda lame and corny and badly-written, but heck, fanfics don’t need to be that well written. It’s like, half the fanfickers out there don’t even have good grammar/spelling! Haha.
“Kill me if you can, Potter,” whispered Voldemort coolly. His skin was paler than even what was normal for him, and he was sweating through every pore in his body. He stared pointedly at his wand which had served him for so long – it was now away from him, ten meters away, pulsating steadily in its position. Voldemort never really believed he had lost the duel before he tried a non-verbal Summoning Charm for his wand – and failed. He had lost his powers to the same person that nearly ended his life seventeen years ago.
The person was now standing above him – bleeding in three parts on the face, decked in robes gashed beyond recognition, gasping for air – but he was still standing. And he had his wand.
“Kill me if you can, Potter,” repeated Voldemort. He knew he was defeated, and his words no longer spelt a challenge, only a plea to be put out of his misery. Misery of the fatigued body, of the troubled mind, of the destroyed soul.
Harry stood over Voldemort, unsure of how to proceed. He had survived the initial onslaught of Avada Kedevras and jinxes with amazing agility, even managed to Disarm his assailant with a well-placed Expelliarmus before draining his powers with a variety of hexes – but he did not want to kill.
He had no idea how to.
“The fact remains that the Dark Lord is still a human, though barely. He needs time to learn from his mistakes.” Dumbledore was in his head, whispering words of wisdom. Like old times.
“Harry… I’m…” Voldemort gasped, and Harry was taken aback at the mention of his name, before reflecting morosely that a dying man would change his personality in shocking ways.
“Winning, Harry, is not always about staying alive.”
“I know… what I have… done.”
“Winning is about standing for your beliefs.”
Harry flicked his wand towards a corner of the vast room, which immediately started to burn a steady purple flame that was large and spreading fast. “It’s okay, Tom. I understand.”
Here I come, Ginny.
“I’ve understood all along.”
The wizarding world had no idea whether to be sad or elated. They opted for a weird mix of both – the celebratory bands played loudly in the afternoon, parading their respective country with glee, while the funeral sessions were held in the evening, a miasmic atmosphere for the event that attracted thousands of people from all over the world.
Harry Potter was buried next to Ginny Weasley.
Ron and Hermione sat in the front row for every single of these sessions, occasionally holding hands, occasionally burying their heads in the other and crying their hearts out. But eventually, they got over that, and it was Hermione who asked the first question.
“Doesn’t this mean… that the prophecy was not entirely true? One cannot live while the other survives… We’ve been thinking all along that one would kill the other, but how come they’re both dead?”
“I have no idea. Maybe one died before the other. Maybe one was defeated, and the other decided to kill himself?”
“And why would he do that?” retorted Hermione.
“Dunno, Hermione,” said Ron, patting Hermione’s hand reassuringly. “Maybe they just understand something that we don’t.”